


Taken

by goldarrow



Series: Slave!verse [3]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, F/M, Gen, M/M, bad things happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 14:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20391355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldarrow/pseuds/goldarrow
Summary: Stephen is kidnapped.A very bad week in the life of an Indentured.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lyle, Ditzy, Blade and Finn belong to fredbassett;  
Charles Hemingway and the rest are mine.
> 
> Caution: This is set in an AU Slave!Verse, therefore all sex is implied dub!con, but at the ARC, at least, it is actually quite enthusiastically embraced.  
Warning: This particular fic contains scenes of rape. They are fairly graphic, but not long or excessively detailed.  
Disclaimer: Primeval and its characters belong to Impossible Pictures, not me. I mean no harm, I make no profit except satisfaction. I promise I will dust them off and return them in pristine condition.

Day One

Stephen woke suddenly, feeling groggy. 

He stared around blearily. Where was he? He wasn't in his room at the A-R-C. This room was a stark white, with no decoration on the walls and only the plainest of fittings. A few chairs that looked like pictures he'd seen of the most ancient of government waiting-room seating and the ratty couch he was lying on were the sum total of the furniture. 

Shaking his head to try to clear some of the fog, Stephen pushed himself to a sitting position. His stomach felt as if it was trying to illustrate the classic description of seasickness, and his vision was fading in and out of focus in a most disconcerting manner. He took a few slow deep breaths and was relieved to find his sight settling down, although his stomach still wasn't pleased with its current condition. In fact, he felt like he had on his eighteenth birthday, when they'd anaesthetised him to tattoo the permanent slave collar onto his neck and embed the permanent tracking and punishment chips after Sir James Lester bought him. He hadn’t reacted well then, either. That had been almost thirteen years ago and since then they’d put him under only as a last resort, and they’d also been extremely careful about the category of anaesthesia they’d used on him.

But why would someone drug him? And move him here, wherever here was? This didn’t look like a hospital, or actually any place he ought to be. He looked down at himself. He was wearing a loose drab shirt and trousers with no belt, and a pair of soft shoes. Nothing like his usual well-fitted clothing. Rubbing his eyes, Stephen tried to make sense of what was happening.

Had there been some mistake? Or had he been brought here deliberately? He felt his throat. The slightly raised bumps at the ends of the flowing lines of the tattooed collar told him his tracking chips were still embedded. Were they working? Unfortunately, there was no way for him to tell if the tracking function itself was working until someone actually tracked him down. He could find out if the entire collar was dead by testing the punishment function, but supposedly it would hurt like sodding hell. Not that he'd ever felt it, but he'd see the videos. The last thing he needed was to take a chance on being incapacitated right now. Not only could it knock him flat, but it would also report him to the National Indentured Tracking Agency as having been intractable. And since having that on his record would haunt him for the rest of his life, it had better be a last resort. Looking around, head spinning, he did his best to stay calm, but that wasn't happening.

He sucked in three gasping breaths and started shaking when the door banged open and two men marched in. They were wearing identical uniforms of dark brown trousers and tan shirts, and even more ominously, they carried truncheons and had what looked like some sort of stun-guns in holsters at their sides. One stood back by the door and the other grabbed Stephen's arm, yanking him to his feet.

"Easy," the first one admonished. "Don't want him damaged before we get some work out of him."

The second one grunted. "Shit. He's not going to last the week, anyway. Who cares?"

"The bosses do, you git. We lost two last week, and if we lose another this quick they'll be landing on us hard enough to squash us flat."

Stephen swallowed hard. That statement wasn’t exactly reassuring.

Sneering, the guard squeezing Stephen's arm loosened his grip just a fraction, enough that Stephen was no longer afraid that his arm would be accidentally amputated. He was pulled from the room, down a corridor and through a metal-barred door faster than his stomach was pleased with, but his digestive disturbance suddenly became much less important as he got a good look round. Bare rock. Darkness lit intermittently by harsh overhead lights.

No, he thought. Please, no.

Sudden terror tried to make his joints freeze as if they’d been hit with a spray of liquid nitrogen, but the grip on his arm kept him moving. He was in the mines. The mines. The bogeyman that all children were threatened with to make them behave. 

He'd always known that most whores ended up here in the end, but he'd never really expected that he was going to be one of them. He was too popular, too profitable, too perfect a candidate to be assigned to teaching at the Indentured Training Centre when he was retired from active duty. He was too valuable . . . wasn't he? Head swimming, he tried to gather his wits.

Surely his owner wouldn’t have sanctioned something like this. Or would he? Brought down to earth, Stephen faced the fact that he was just an Indentured whore, after all. Of no importance, really. But, he’d always been Sir James’ favourite and nothing had changed as far as he knew. Except…. except Ryan. Retired Special Forces Major Tom Ryan, the man Lester had hired seven months ago to revamp his security, the man who had now been Stephen’s lover for a little over four weeks. Damn it, Lester had encouraged their relationship at the time. But maybe he’d changed his mind.

Stephen's world crashed down around him as his thoughts ran wild, feeding on his hidden fears, allowing childhood terrors to spiral out of control. The only reason for still-profitable whores to be sent to the mines was if they broke the rules, and broke them egregiously. Was Sir James annoyed about Ryan now, thinking their relationship a liability? Had Stephen’s profit margin taken a nosedive? He didn’t think so, but it was possible. Did Sir James want to get rid of him now? If he was angry enough, Sir James wouldn’t have bothered to tell Stephen anything. After all, there was no legal requirement that Indentured be informed of any changes to their status. He closed his eyes for a moment, almost stumbling. It all came back to his tracking chips. If Sir James had wanted him back, he should have been found immediately. 

Stephen was still reeling from the discovery of where he was and the confused fears about why he’d been sent there when they reached their destination: an open area at the end of a long, fitfully-lit tunnel. The guard shoved him forward and he staggered, almost falling into the arms of another uniformed man.

"Fucking hell, Summers." The man fended Stephen off in a way that showed a considerable amount of practice at it. "We need to get at least a few days out of him."

Ignoring Stephen, his former escort turned to walk away. "Yeah, yeah. He's too fucking pretty to last, you know that, Laurence. Makes no difference what we do." He looked around ostentatiously, and Stephen saw a bunch of other prisoners watching the show. Summers grinned cruelly. "Besides, you know whores are only good for one thing." 

The gazes fixed on him grew hungry and predatory, and Stephen was suddenly light-headed and had to take a few slow breaths to try to get himself back under control. It didn't help when Laurence cursed softly. Stephen managed to raise his eyes to look at him, and the guard was frowning. "Sorry, fella. We usually try to keep inmates’ former occupations quiet. Sometimes it can cause problems in here. We'll do the best we can, but for fuck's sake, keep your head down."

Unconsciously biting his lip, Stephen nodded, his hands and arms starting to feel numb. He knew it was just the shock of finding himself here, but knowing didn’t help. "What do I have to do?" he whispered, after clearing his throat a couple of times to reactivate his frozen vocal cords.

The guard looked around then waved to the uniformed man supervising teams at the far end of the area. "Hey, Hughes? One of your teams needs a packer, right?"

"Sure does," the other guard called back. 

Laurence gave Stephen a push, not gentle, but not hard enough to unbalance him. "Over there. Follow orders. Immediately. No arguing, no questioning unless you're completely confused. But packing's easy."

Stephen walked shakily over to the team, trying to look more confident than he felt. Any sign of weakness would be like blood in the water to these sharks. His psychology training had touched on mob behaviour, but he'd never thought he'd need more than just a superficial knowledge of it.

Setting aside his fear and confusion for the moment in preference to staying alive and in one piece, he paid close attention to the instructions Hughes gave him. It seemed easy enough: he was to push a cart behind the two men wielding the wide chisel-ended drill things - they looked a bit like narrow spatulas attached to portable fucking machines, honestly - and when enough ore was broken from the walls by the thumping, he was to pick up the chunks and put them into the cart. It certainly sounded easy, but in practice it turned out to be exhausting. The cart was heavy as sin, it was as hard to stop once it got moving as it was to get started when it was stopped, and the chunks of ore sometimes had edges of a knifelike sharpness that tried to slice his hands open as he picked them up. Some were heavy, some light, but all of them required bending, lifting and turning in order to get them into the cart.

After three hours of unremitting labour, with only a small glass of water at the end of each hour, Stephen was ready to drop. A siren went off, and he barely had enough energy left to flinch. 

"Right," the guard called as the men with the drills set them down, some sighing in relief. "Lunch break. Line forms on the right."

One of the drill-men pushed Stephen. "Get going, damn it. We wait too long and we don't have time to eat. Move it, for fuck's sake."

The other driller leered, making Stephen move as quickly as he could in his current state of grinding fatigue. "He'll have plenty to eat tonight!"

Stephen cringed internally but did his best to glare through his exhaustion at the man. "Fuck off," he muttered loudly enough that they could hear him.

"No, fuck you," the miner replied, high-fiving a third man as the others around them cheered and jeered.

Stephen fought the urge to wrap his arms around himself in what he knew would be a vain and tempting effort at self-protection as he choked down the soup and bread that was all they were handed for sustenance. He had to be strong. This had to be a mistake. He wasn't supposed to be here. Lester would come soon. Ryan - Ryan would come soon.

xXx


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for Stephen begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for warnings.

Day One: the A-R-C

Retired Special Forces Major Tom Ryan, now head of Security at the A-R-C, stopped outside the entrance, suddenly wary. The building was dark and still. The A-R-C was never dark and still. It might be only a little after 7am, but with the sex house being open 24 hours a day, it always had some light inside, some slight movement. Right now - zilch. 

There had been a few times since he had retired from the military that he wished he still had the authority to carry a weapon, and this, right now, was one of those times. Hoping he hadn't been seen if there was anyone lurking inside out of his range of vision, he moved silently around the side of the building, all senses alert. 

Contrary to fire regulations, the back emergency door was locked. He fitted his override key into the slot as carefully as possible and turned it slowly. The door opened without even a betraying click, and he made a mental note to commend his shift leaders for their proactive maintenance. Nerves on hair-trigger alert, he pushed the heavy metal door open and inched through with only the slightest rustle of clothing to give away his position. 

There was nothing. The back corridor was empty, and a quick swipe of his hand told him that the light switch by the door was in the off position, as was the alarm. He crept along to the corridor that led to the security room and took a peek around the corner. Something else he was wishing he had right now: night-vision goggles. He didn't want to betray his presence by turning on lights, so he made the best of it by closing first one eye and then the other to encourage his pupils to dilate. He had made it halfway down the B corridor, noting that the doors to all of the whores' rooms were closed, when he started feeling dizzy. 

He stopped, taking a slightly deeper testing breath. The dizziness increased, almost making him stagger. Fuck. Some sort of gas. Abandoning stealth, he spun on his heel and headed out at speed, holding his breath until he was able to burst through the back door and into the clear morning air.

The moment he was outside, he took a few deep, cleansing gulps of air as he pulled out his mobile and hit the speed-dial for the local emergency services. Christ, this was the second catastrophe at the A-R-C in less than a year. Only seven months ago a gang of yobs had broken in and tried to smash the place up, and today there was some sort of gas problem. Lester was going to go spare. 

The dispatcher came on-line as he made his way around the building toward the front drive, and he reported a possible gas leak as well as a possible break-in and robbery, giving more details as soon as he heard that fire and police had been dispatched. The calm voice on the other end told him to wait out front and make no attempt to re-enter the building.

"There's no fucking way I'm going back in there without full Hazmat gear," he replied just as calmly, and the woman chuckled. 

"They should be there in two minutes," she said.

Ryan turned the last corner to the front of the building. "You're off by a couple of minutes. They're here now."

"Glad to hear it. Good luck."

"Thanks. Ryan out."

He strode up to the people starting to cluster around the emergency vehicles and homed in on the one who seemed to be in charge. The man raised an eyebrow at him and Ryan held out his hand.

"Tom Ryan, Head of Security. I called it in."

"Chief Fire Officer Martin. What’s the status?" 

"I got here for my shift, the place was dark, I checked inside at the back and got dizzy. Something in the air, natural or not, I don't know. I got out and called you."

The chief nodded. "Right." Turning to his men, he ordered, "Full Hazmat, lads. Check it out."

Ryan held up his hand. "There should be at least 31 people inside. More if there are clients. This time of the morning, though, that's not necessarily a given." He paused, struck with horror. "Shit. I don't even know when it happened. It could be any time from one AM on." At the Chief's questioning look, he added, "Night shift comes on at one. Any time before that and Bl - Richards would have notified me when he clocked in."

"On your way, lads. Keep count. A-team pull people out, B-team search for the source." 

Having already developed a good opinion of the man's acuity, Ryan was ready for the next question when it came. "’Bl - Richards’?"

"Special Forces nickname. Blade was one of my men."

The chief nodded. "You’re a retired Major?"

Ryan grinned. "Got it in one. Left last year."

Holding up one hand to signal for silence, the chief pressed a button on his earpiece with the other. "Okay. Find as many as you can." He pressed another button. "Watson, call for a couple of ambulances in case we have some overdoses." 

Ryan tensed. "Fuck."

The chief's gaze was intent and calculating. "Your boss have any enemies, Ryan? Or maybe you do?"

"It was deliberate?" Ryan asked, slightly distractedly, as the retrieval team carried out of the building and laid on the grass what he hoped were only unconscious bodies.

"Multiple gas cylinders, hidden in pot plants, sculptures and out of the way niches."

"Fuck," Ryan repeated tiredly. "Sir James is not going to be happy."

"Sir James? As in Sir James Lester?" the chief asked, not quite as idly as it seemed by his tone if his expression was anything to go by.

"Yes. He owns the A-R-C." Ryan sighed, watching the bodies starting to stir in the fresh air. "I need to call him."

"Please do. We'll want to talk to him as soon as possible if we're going to have any chance of tracking down whoever did this."

The fire team medic, backed up by one of the EMTs, interrupted before he could pull out his mobile. "Sir, most of the victims are doing fine, waking up without incident now that they're no longer being dosed. A couple are a little rocky; those, I'd like to take in for some respiratory support."

The chief nodded. "Go ahead."

Ryan put out his hand as the men turned away. "Do you have their names?"

"Davidson, from security, and, um, Olivia."

"Thanks." Ryan made a mental note, then his world got a bit brighter as Blade walked up to him, a little unsteady but with a mix of determination and barely-contained fury on his face.

"Boss," he said. "Everyone's out." Uncharacteristically, he hesitated. "Stephen's not here."

Ryan went cold. Only a little more than a month in, his relationship with Stephen was still fresh, every day a learning experience that had almost become an addiction to him, as precious as the purest gold. He shook his head, mentally informing his stomach in no uncertain terms that it had better stay in his abdomen where it belonged instead of trying to climb into his throat where it wouldn’t do the slightest bit of good, and asked, "Anyone else missing?"

"Don't know yet. Lack of Stephen was pretty obvious."

"Okay. Find out." 

“Ainley is already on it.”

Ryan walked away a few steps, took a deep breath and dialled Lester's private number. Christ, he was more unhappy about having to report this to Lester than he was the time he'd had to report to his old SF CO that a sortie had gone completely tits up and he and his entire team were now on the injured list. At least in the military you knew what to expect from your superiors.

He'd been right to be nervous. Hell, he hadn't even known that Lester was capable of yelling that loudly. Holding the phone away from his ear and staring blankly at Blade's sympathetic expression, he waited out the storm. 

Finally running down, Lester apologised simply. "Sorry, Ryan. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Grinning ruefully, Ryan flipped the mobile shut. "Well, that was fun."

Blade chuckled, then winced. Ryan nodded to the EMTs. "Get some oxygen into you," he ordered. "I need you functioning at top capacity."

Grimacing, the night-shift team leader wandered over to the ambulances as Dave Owen, ex-Special Forces medic and now A-R-C day shift security supervisor, walked through the entrance gates and stopped dead. "What the fuck have I missed?" he asked, staring around. “And do they need help?”

“Gas. Deliberate attack.” Ryan nodded at the chief. “Check with him. If they don’t need you, find out when we can go in. I want to see the canisters in situ.” He straightened, catching sight of Ainley heading his direction, looking more pissed off than Ryan had ever seen him. 

“Sir, they’ve taken Stephen, Kevin and Grace.” Ainley was doing everything short of coming to attention and saluting.

“All the lead whores. How did they know who to target?” Ryan tapped his mobile against his lips, correlating all the information he’d gathered over the last seven months about the A-R-C setup.

Ainley shrugged. “I dunno. They are in the first rooms in each corridor.”

That was a possibility. “You think they weren’t after lead whores, just grabbed the closest ones to the front?” 

Ainley shrugged again. 

Ryan took the hint. It didn’t really matter. They’d lost three of their people, and one of them was Stephen. The kidnappers were about to find out the hard way that they’d just made one hell of a big mistake. 

He looked over at Owen and Blade. The knifeman had an expression on his face that usually immediately preceded someone dying very messily. And Ditzy wasn’t much better. The medic normally looked either cheerful or impassive, but right now he might as well have been staring down the sights of a rifle as he watched the front door of the A-R-C, waiting for the okay for them to enter.

The chief headed back to Ryan just as Lester drove in and stopped his car in the middle of the drive with a jerk that betrayed his stifled fury.

“Talk,” Lester ordered as he stalked up to Ryan and the chief.

Ryan performed introductions while gesturing for Blade and Ditzy to join them. “Sir James Lester, Chief Fire Officer Martin. Someone hid canisters full of knockout gas all over the building. They went off at…?" He looked over at Blade with a raised eyebrow.

“0300,” Blade snarled as he reached Ryan’s shoulder. At Lester’s look of disbelief, Blade’s eyes narrowed, and Ryan caught his breath for a moment, wondering if he was going to have to intervene. But the knifeman held onto his temper by a thread. “I’d just looked at the fucking clock. It said 3:02, and I remember thinking that Ainley was a couple of minutes late for changeover right before I passed out. From what I heard your men saying about the canister placements, Chief, building that size, A/C setup like that, two minutes to spread the gas to where I was.”

The chief nodded, looking impressed. He turned to Lester, holding out his hand. “Sir James, your man is absolutely correct. We found timers on the gas canisters. They were set for three AM today.”

Lester’s lips tightened and his eyes went hard as he shook hands with the chief. Ryan wondered what Lester was thinking. Whatever it was, it didn’t bode well for whoever his target was going to turn out to be. 

“How long ago were they set?” Lester demanded, and Ryan stiffened. Here it came. Lester’s next words were aimed at Ryan and were precisely what he had known they were going to be. “And how, exactly, did your men miss them, Ryan?”

The chief backed away, reminding Ryan of a cat coming face-to-face with snow for the first time. Lester’s tone was definitely cold enough to freeze ears.

“I don’t know, sir,” Ryan replied simply. He’d never been one to shirk responsibility. “But I intend to find out.”

“We don’t know,” Blade growled. “This is on all of us, boss. And anyone gets in my way, I tell you right now, I’m stepping on him.”

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Blade, Ditzy nodded at Lester. “That goes for me, too, sir. We will find him. Them.”

Ryan was beginning to wonder how many times in this conversation that he would end up holding his breath. For Ditzy to make his priorities so clear was unusual. The medic was normally more tactful than this. Then he realised that they were concerned for him as well as for Stephen. They knew what the whore meant to Ryan. No one was going to steal their boss’s lover without learning the hard way about Special Forces loyalty, and exactly what that would mean to someone who hurt one of their own. And Stephen without a doubt had become one of their own. 

The chief called to them, ending the nonverbal standoff between Lester and his men before Ryan had to intercede. 

“Ryan, you can go in now. The police have finished their in-situ photographs.” 

An unremarkable-looking brown-haired, grey-suited man who had been talking to the ranking police officer broke from the pack and headed in their direction, meeting them halfway to the door. “James.”

Lester’s face lightened as he clasped the man’s hand. “Charles. I’m glad you’re here.”

Charles smiled. “I heard the call. The moment I recognised the address I came over. Permission has been granted for me to lead this one.”

“Thank you.” Lester’s voice was more sincere than Ryan had ever heard it. The owner introduced them. “DCI Charles Hemingway, Tom Ryan, Head of Security; Niall Richards and David Owen, security team leads. Ryan, I’ve known Charles for twenty years. You can place your full trust in him.”

Ryan nodded. That was good to know. There were no flies on Lester, in fact, even if he rolled in offal he probably couldn’t attract them. If he trusted the man then Ryan and his team could, too. “Sir. Would you like to accompany us?”

Hemingway nodded, brown eyes that were sharp enough to belie his mild exterior examining them closely. “I certainly would, Mr Ryan. James, I’ll see you after we’ve taken a look around.”

“Good enough,” Lester replied. “Charles, have you notified the National Indentured Tracking Agency?”

“Of course I did, the moment we knew the three were missing.” Hemingway managed to look both sympathetic and very slightly offended.

“And?” Lester certainly wasn’t in the mood to play twenty questions. At that point, Ryan would have been happy to head for the front door. Unfortunately, having offered, he now had to wait for Hemingway, which meant remaining much too close to Lester’s rather uneven temper.

“There’s no sign of them on the grid anywhere.”

Lester went completely still. “Dead?” 

Ryan watched distantly as Lester’s hands curled into fists, and Hemingway’s eyebrows headed for his slightly-receding hairline at speed.

“No. There were no life-sign-termination notifications. The signals simply went blank.”

“In that case, I’d like to officially request a missing person report on all three.”

Hemingway’s lips quirked. “James, you know that Indentured are low priority. They’ll be placed on the general lookout list. That’s procedure.”

Lester looked as if he was holding himself back with an effort from saying something unforgivable to his friend. “Damn it. Someone has managed to mask Indentured tracking chips. I would think you’d want to find out how. Not to mention the fact that one of those ‘low priority Indentured’ has a chance of winning the Longevity Prize, Charles. I will not lose him.” 

Eyebrows flying, Hemingway whistled as Ryan and his men traded confused looks. That was a phrase that Ryan for one had never heard before. Giving his head a quick shake as Ditzy opened his mouth, Ryan watched the A-R-Cs owner and the detective inspector as they faced off.

Hemingway was the first one to yield. He sighed. “Very well, James. If I don’t, I know you’ll simply make a fuss to the higher powers until you get your way.”

Smiling sardonically, Lester agreed with that statement, and Hemingway pulled out his mobile and called for a priority missing person search for Stephen Hart, Grace Temple, and Kevin Villiers. He handed the mobile to Ryan, who gave a succinct description of each and said he’d send along photos within the hour.

Once he was done, Lester clasped his old friend’s shoulder. “Thank you, Charles.”

“Hmph,” was Hemingway’s response, along with a flip of his eyebrow. “Gentlemen, if you’ll come with me, we can check the building now.”

They headed inside, leaving Lester to work with Finn on re-scheduling all the appointments set for the day. Ryan had seen the young man already turn a few people away, an unprecedented occurrence, and one that Lester quite obviously intended would never happen again.

The four men stopped just inside the door and Ryan felt the weight of Hemingway's gaze on him as the inspector watched the other three visually quarter the area. Ryan gestured, and Blade headed for the left and the canteen and whores’ break room as Ditzy split off to the right to check Lester’s office area and the conference room. Ryan himself stayed in the lobby, examining the canisters and their locations. 

He sighed as he looked back at Hemingway. “Damn it, sir, these could have been here for months. Every one of them was placed inside or under something that would disguise it from the cleaning crews, and by their placement, Security wouldn’t see them on their rounds, either.” He gestured at one of the canisters. “Christ, they even managed to make this one look like a fucking modern sculpture.” Shaking his head, he stared at it. “This piece has been here since I started. That vase, though - that’s new. It was a replacement for one damaged when the yobs hit the place seven months ago. Damn. We need to look at the old security tapes. We need to see who installed this stuff.” At Hemingway’s raised eyebrow, he had a sudden thought, and felt himself go white, stricken. “Oh, fuck. Civilian laws. We can’t keep surveillance for longer than fifteen fucking minutes without what do they call it - direct, verifiable cause?”

Hemingway nodded. “Thank you, Mr Ryan. You have the law’s wording correct. I’m glad to hear that you’re following procedure. You had me a bit worried there for a moment.” Tapping his teeth with the stylus he was using to take notes on his tablet, he gave a sidelong glance at Ryan and murmured. “Of course, there might have been various . . . oddity . . . reports filed?”

Ryan gritted his teeth. How had he missed that? Damn it. He was flapping around like a sparrow in a windstorm. He needed to get his head back in the game. Stephen’s life might depend on it. Taking a deep breath of the now clear air, he ignored Hemingway’s calculating expression and headed back to the security room.

xXx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen's life gets even worse.

Day One: the Mines

By the end of the day, Stephen believed with every fibre of his being that he had never been more exhausted in his life. He could barely lift his arms, his back felt as if trolls had been hammering on it all day long, his legs were as shaky as a newborn foal's, and he had a headache that he was sure was going to split his skull open like an overripe papaya dropped onto a sidewalk.

And that was just the physical part. He’d also spent the day in a state of nerves, on edge every moment. Waiting and watching for the men to bump up against him, for the hands that groped him whenever he turned his back, and the filthy promises that were whispered in his ear by the same men whose hands were pinching and prodding.

The teams were herded back to the upper levels in groups of five, where they stripped, dumped their clothing into laundry bins, and trundled like a line of cygnets through the entrance of a sanitization shower. Stephen stayed at the back as they shuffled slowly down the corridor, allowing the jets of tepid water spaced along the walls and ceiling to rinse the dust from their bodies as they passed. He mimicked the other men as they raised and lowered their arms, turned their bodies slightly side to side, and ran their fingers repeatedly through their hair and across their faces. By the time they reached the other end, they were all fairly clean, or as clean as they could get without soap, anyway. After dressing in a fresh uniform as quickly as he could, he shakily followed the group down the hallway to a small cafeteria. 

Trailing the rest of his group, he was handed a sandwich and a cup of water for supper. He took it, moved over to the nearest wall and slid down it to rest on the floor. Barely able to lift the food, he ate slowly, eyelids drooping until he felt someone stop very close to him. An adrenalin rush roused him abruptly, and he tensed and looked up. 

The lead driller on his team was standing in front of him and Stephen’s breath left him as he looked around the room and saw the men filing out again.

“Up and out,” the man grunted. “Time for bed.”

Stephen struggled to his feet. “I don’t know where to go,” he admitted.

“Christ,” the man muttered. “They really are getting shitty. Okay. Six per room. Since you worked with my team today and nobody’s told you different, I guess you've been assigned to the room with Tony’s and my teams. Tony’s lead driller on Team Two, an okay guy, but for fuck’s sake don’t turn your back on the other three bastards.” He eyed Stephen. “You’ll be face down before you know it.”

Stephen shivered and forced himself to not back away. “And you and Tony?”

The man grinned happily. “We got each other. Don’t need to force anyone.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Mitchell. They call me Mitch.”

Taking it with trepidation, Stephen replied, “Stephen Hart.”

“Right, Stephen. Follow me. We’ve got only a little over six hours before wake-up, so move your arse.” Mitch turned and strode out, nodding to the guard by the door, Stephen trailing him like a duckling after a drake. 

A very tired, very stiff duckling. Swimming and gym workouts hadn’t turned out to be anything near the amount of exercise contained in a full day’s physical labour. All he wanted was to get his head down and sleep for a week. But he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be that easy. 

They entered the room that was now going to be Stephen’s home for as long as he lived. Three sets of bunk beds lined the walls, two on the right side and one on the left. A simple toilet and sink nestled on the left wall at the back end of the bunks there. Designed to hold six men, the room was smaller than his private suite at the A-R-C.

Four men were already lounging on bunks, watching the door. Stephen felt the weight of their gazes as soon as he stepped in, but between the numbing exhaustion and the still grinding hunger from his full day’s work on the small amount of food he'd had, he couldn’t really bring himself to care.

“Guys, Stephen. Stephen, Tony, Keith, Max, and Bobby.” Mitch stated, pointing at each man as he named him. “Your bunk is bottom right rear. Keep your back against the wall, stay fully clothed,” he added softly, and gave Stephen a light shove in the correct direction.

Stephen nodded in acknowledgement and met each man’s eyes in turn for a fraction of a second, assessing the danger as he moved to his bunk. The level of testosterone in the room was choking him. He knew, without a doubt, that he was going to be raped. 

Trying to mentally prepare himself, he pulled back the thin blanket, toed his shoes off and stuffed them under the bed, and lay down on his right side, keeping his back pressed against the wall as Mitch had suggested. He had barely managed to start to relax his overworked muscles when the lights went out and he tensed again, this time in anticipatory fear, mental preparation be damned.

The rustle of fabric and the sound of one soft padding footstep was all the warning he got. His blanket was pulled back and before he could even lash out he was yanked onto his stomach by a set of hands that grabbed his wrists and twisted his already sore arms up behind him and a knee pressed into his upper back hard enough to make breathing difficult. Another pair of hands wrapped around the waistband of his trousers, yanking them down and off. His legs were pulled apart and a warm body covered his buttocks.

Gritting his teeth, he used every bit of training he’d ever received to relax so he could accept the intrusion he knew was coming. He knew what rape was, but it had never happened to him. Never had he been taken without preparation (even if it was only his own); never had he been fucked without lubrication. BDSM whores sometimes did one or the other, but as far as he knew it was never both at the same time. That led to injury, which led to loss of income, and loss of income was the only unfailing no-no in their lives. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Even if Ryan found him, would he be in any condition to be profitable any more? 

Then he felt the blunt head at his opening. There was a slight dampness from precome; maybe, just maybe, enough to prevent severe damage if he could manage to relax enough through his terror. He tried. Unfortunately, the man covering him wasn’t in a mood to be gentle. The hard cock rammed into him and dragged back out, rasping the delicate membrane painfully. It took every ounce of control Stephen had to hold back his yell. 

Dimly, he heard sounds of pain emanating from some of the other rooms along the corridor as the stronger prisoners took full advantage of their power over the weaker ones. But he was damned if he was going to add to the chorus. Burying his face into his pillow to muffle any sounds that might be forced out, he breathed deeply and concentrated on staying as loose as possible as the hard shaft pounded into him. 

It wasn’t long before he heard grunting, the weight on him increased in waves and he felt wetness inside as his attacker came. But they weren’t through. A quick change of hands and bodies, and the process was repeated by a second cock, the penetration slightly eased by the sliminess of the first man's come, then by a third cock. He wasn't sure if it was come or blood making his passage slick by that time. He thought they were done, but then a fourth cock was shoved into his sore, battered arse. 

Was this a repeat, or had Mitch lied to him? Stephen refused to even try to see faces in the dark. At this point, he really didn’t want to know. All he wanted was for this to be over. Finally, it was. The weight holding him down disappeared, the hands left his body, and he was alone on the thin mattress. Attempting unsuccessfully to hold back tears of pain, embarrassment and fury, he managed bring his arms back down to his sides, stifling his groans as the twisted muscles protested. He pulled his pants and trousers back on and curled on his side again with his back to the wall. Not that it would do any good if they decided on another round, but at least he was trying. 

He fell asleep with the tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

xXx 

Day Two: the Mines

Waking up in the morning was another exercise in agony. Stephen didn’t think he’d moved an inch all night, and every muscle in his body seemed to have locked up in protest. His arse felt like someone had rammed a telephone pole up it, and his eyelids were hot and swollen from the tears he’d shed in his sleep.

He kept his eyes closed as he listened to his roommates taking turns pissing into the open toilet. For the first time since he’d been rated as High Libido in his adolescent hormone test, he didn’t really want to see any bare cocks. And for the first time since he’d eaten yesterday evening, he was happy that his meals had been so tiny. He wasn’t sure he’d even be able to shit right now. A quick tensing of his sphincter sent a stab of sharp pain through him. Today was not going to be fun. 

Now that he knew what was in store for him most likely every night until he could no longer survive the abuse, in desperation he decided that having a black mark on his record would be preferable. Bracing himself for more pain, he pressed the raised areas of the design tattooed into his neck in a certain sequence. The punishment chip test should send an electric shock through his body. It didn't, and Stephen's last hope faltered. If the punishment function of his collar was inactive, that meant the entire collar was inactive. He couldn't be tracked. Ryan wouldn't find him, at least not by his tracking chips. He bit his lip as he gathered courage from deep inside. All that meant was he had to survive, and wait for them to find him the old-fashioned way. By looking.

The call-out came before he was ready, but he took a deep breath to centre himself and sat up gingerly. Hiding how much he was hurting, he glared at the men standing ready by the door. They grinned back, and Stephen narrowed his eyes, doing his best to shoot daggers at them, wishing that looks really could kill. He embraced the hatred. Those men had debased the one thing that he enjoyed most. And for that he would never forgive them. 

A movement on the bunks at the other side of the room caught his attention. Mitch was looking sympathetically at him, as was the other man - Tony, was it? - who had his shoulder pressed close to Mitch. Stephen allowed his hatred for the men at the door to deepen; if he didn’t, if he embraced Mitch’s sympathy, then he would lose it. Right now.

Thinking back, he remembered that he hadn’t heard any movement from the other side of the room during the rape. So Mitch hadn’t lied about not being interested. Feeling a little better, and with a quick nod to Mitch and his lover, Stephen slid from the bunk with his best approximation of his usual sinuous grace. 

The door opened and the six men walked out, Stephen fourth in line with Mitch and Tony doing a poor job of disguising the fact that they were watching his back. 

“Thanks,” Stephen muttered.

“Don’t thank us yet,” Mitch said softly. “Just try to make it through the day.”

Not actually understanding what Mitch meant, Stephen nodded. After a quick, and in Stephen’s case standing, breakfast of some sort of porridge and the worst coffee he had ever tasted, they were mustered down into the passages again. This time they were in a different section, and Stephen was assigned to substitute on the drill for another team. 

He didn’t have the foggiest idea how to use it, and Mitch’s quickly mumbled explanation didn’t do much good. So sore and stiff that he was barely able to hold the equipment, all he managed to do at first was knock a few tiny chips off the wall and almost lose his grip. The kickback was a hell of a lot stronger than he’d anticipated.

He gritted his teeth, wondering if he was going to crack the dental enamel before he was done, and shifted his grip on the drill to try again. He didn’t get the chance. The bright line of pain across his back was so unexpected that he dropped the drill, narrowly missing his foot with the sharp edge of the metal paddle. 

“Get to work, you slacker,” the guard snarled.

Head spinning, Stephen bent over to pick up the drill, and another sharp pain cracked across him, driving him to his knees.

“Now, fucker!”

“He’s new, Amador, give him a break,” a voice echoed across the chamber, and the guard spun around, glaring. 

Everyone was still working, no one even looking at them, but Stephen thought he’d recognised Tony’s voice. Silently thanking Mitch’s friend for the distraction, Stephen managed to pick up the drill and set it against the wall before the guard turned back. He braced himself a little harder this time against the kickback he now knew was coming, and flipped the machine on. This time he was able to get a few larger chips to break off, and the guard turned away, a look of disappointment on his face.

Stephen made a mental note to watch out for that one. It didn’t do any good. By lunchtime he was exhausted, and by quitting time he wasn’t even able to hold the drill up. Amador seemed to be obscurely pleased by that; but he was the only one who was.

Stephen had felt the lash a number of times that afternoon.

He was raped again that night.

xXx


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People start to turn on each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for warnings.

Day Two: the A-R-C

“Ryan!” Finn burst into the security break room where Ryan was still desperately poring over incident and daily reports from the last ten months. He’d taken a guess as to how far back to go for the search, and three months before he was hired seemed a good enough starting point. Unfortunately, the earlier ones seemed to be either illegible or deficient in the most elementary of facts. He was cursing the lack of organisation that had existed before he arrived when the excitement in Finn’s voice grabbed his attention. Thank fuck, maybe there was some good news. He’d barely slept at all the previous night, staying late to investigate, and returning at the crack of dawn to resume the search. With the exception of Davidson, who was still in hospital, every guard on staff had offered to put in double shifts - one for their regular job, and one to go through reports. Ryan had accepted, with thanks. Lyle and Courtney had come in early and were locked in the records room going through patient records, searching for anything that might throw light on who was behind this, client confidentiality be damned.

“They’ve been found?” Ryan tried to keep the hope from his tone, but the sympathetic expression on the secretary’s face told him he hadn’t succeeded.

“In the marketplace. Someone dumped them behind the midden.”

“Alive?”

Finn nodded. “The report says they’re alive. They’ve been taken to the Indentured Training Centre infirmary. Lester’s already on his way there.”

As he headed for the door at top speed, Ryan had the sudden irreverent thought that the papers on the table were flapping in the breeze of his passage like they did on the cartoons he had watched as a child. It took him less than half an hour to make the normally 40 minute trip to the Centre, and he met Lester and another man in the lobby. A very unhappy Lester, who combined relief with an intensity of anger that surprised Ryan. Oh, fuck. Something was wrong.

“Sir?” Ryan didn’t bother with any amenities.

Lester snarled. Actually snarled. Ryan was torn between admiration and a desire to be anywhere outside the range of that level of fury.

“Kevin and Grace are here. Stephen is still missing.”

“Oh, damn it,” Ryan whispered, wondering if he was going to be able to cope with the sudden dashing of his hopes. Then he shook himself. “How are they?”

“They’re unharmed, just frightened out of their wits.” Lester seemed to regain a little of his own balance from seeing Ryan’s struggle for control. 

Ryan scrubbed his face with his hands, hoping to stimulate a few ideas. “Do they know anything at all?”

“No. Not a fucking thing.” 

Shocked at the normally punctilious man’s sudden dive into vulgarity, Ryan twitched.

Lester shrugged one shoulder. “They were kept unconscious the entire time. As far as they’re concerned, they fell asleep at the A-R-C, and they woke up at the marketplace. In between, all they have is a very large blank. They didn’t even know their tracking chips had been deactivated. And the chips were deactivated, not broken; an agent sent out from the NITA was able to restart them without a problem. Either someone at the NITA turned them off in the first place, or someone has an illegal override device. Charles said there has been an official investigation opened at the NITA. They’re not pleased.”

“I'm not fucking surprised,” Ryan muttered. He was now officially at his wit’s end. “We’ll keep looking through the reports, then. It’s all we can do.”

“Not all,” Lester said with finality, turning to the man beside him. Ryan finally recognised him as the Centre director, having remembered seeing the man being interviewed in the news a few months back. “I’m offering Reward for any information leading to Stephen’s recovery.”

The director’s eyes widened. “James, are you sure?”

“I don’t care how unprecedented it is, Jack. That young man is the best in his field, and I want him found.”

To Ryan’s surprise, Jack nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, James, I’ll see that word is disseminated. Standard Reward?”

“Double,” Lester replied firmly, and Ryan relaxed, just a fraction. Reward was completely anonymous, and Double would be worth fifty thousand pounds. If that didn’t bring in information, nothing would.

xXx 

Day Three: the Mines

Halfway through his third day, Stephen was beginning to wonder if the guards were deliberately trying to keep him off balance so they could punish him. He was ordered onto a new job again, this time unpacking the sleds and sorting the chunks of ore into appropriate bins for their size and quality. Once more he got only the most basic of instructions and the highest of speed requirements. 

It was a lucky thing that the whips were designed for maximum pain with minimum injury, or he would be a mass of welts and cuts by now. He knew he was bruised, he could feel the tightness across his back, but there was no blood on his sheets or his shirt - none from whip-lashes, anyway. 

He was rapidly learning that some guards were more touchy than others, more willing to strike at the slightest provocation. At this point, he wasn’t sure which guard was worse, Amador yesterday or Summers today. Both seemed to take a great amount of joy in disciplining any of the miners who got out of line. Both seemed to deliberately find or perhaps even engineer infractions to punish. Laurence stayed strictly out of their way, keeping to his own area. Stephen had the impression he was fairly new, his flash of spirit on the day Stephen first arrived being the only indication that he didn’t like going along with the other two. 

Hughes actually tried to rein them in, Stephen had to admit that, but he was outnumbered. The stupid thing was that the men in Hughes’s area were always the most productive, but no one seemed to notice. Except Stephen, who was closely observing everything in a desperate attempt to work out exactly what the fuck he was supposed to be doing. He hated being lashed. Those sodding whips hurt.

By the end of the day, his back was a solid collection of painful stripes.

He was raped again that night. He was almost getting used to it.

xXx

Day Three: the A-R-C

Blade was ready to kill someone. Lyle and Ditzy weren’t far behind. Ryan could see that without even looking closely. The late night clients were being very circumspect, and the daytime and evening clients were showing almost an excess of sympathy. Finn, Abby and Timmy had become adept over the last few days at tactfully informing questioners that no, there had been no news, and yes, they were definitely still looking.

None of the clients seemed to notice any difference in Lester’s mien, but Ryan could see the subtle signs of strain. The two small lines between his eyebrows and the lips held even thinner than usual were clear indications to someone familiar with him that Sir James Lester was very close to losing his shit completely.

All three shift leaders were practically living at the A-R-C, grabbing occasional catnaps whenever they hit a sticking point, with the rest of the security personnel putting in double shifts to help the search. However, when there were still no concrete results by the evening of the third day, Lester called Ryan into his office. The ex-soldier entered, and Lester stared at him without expression. “Close the door, Ryan.”

This was it. Obeying the order, Ryan knew he was about to be fired from a job for the first time in his life. But before Lester could get another word out, the door opened again and Jon Lyle stepped through, followed by Blade and Ditzy, who silently spread out to flank Ryan’s former lieutenant.

“Fuck this,” Lyle stated unequivocally, not even waiting to be acknowledged. “Don’t make the biggest fucking mistake of your life, Sir James.”

Ryan twitched, half raising his hand. It wouldn’t do any of them any good for all four men to be fired. Unless Lyle reckoned that all the security teams were about to be out on the street, so why not?

Lester raised an eyebrow, looking more normal than he had since Stephen disappeared. “Lyle, this is a private conversation.”

“No, it’s a crock of shit,” Lyle countered. “If you think kicking Ryan out is going to improve the situation any, then you’re thick as a dozen planks piled up. And I never would have believed that.”

Lester smiled, but it was a kind of smile that Ryan never wanted to see again. It contained too many teeth and eyes as black and dead as a shark’s. “You, I am sure, have a better idea?”

Lester’s expression might have given Ryan pause, but it didn’t seem to faze Lyle at all. He crossed his arms and glared. “I do. Give us some time. The police are still looking for anyone who saw anything around the area, and we’re still going through reports. When we’re done with those and haven’t found anything, that’s when to toss us out like last week’s garbage. Not now, not in the middle of our search. You want to start at the beginning again with a new bunch of people, be back to square one?”

Lester closed his eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. After a fraught moment, he dropped his hand and said, “You’re absolutely right, Lyle. Thank you for preventing me from making the ‘biggest fucking mistake’ of my life. Ryan, my apologies. Again. This situation is so far out of my range of experience that I seem to be reacting rather stupidly.”

Taking a full breath for the first time since he’d walked through the door, Ryan accepted the apology. “We’re all on edge, Sir James. But if Stephen can be found, we will find him. That I can promise.”

Lester nodded, and motioned them out. “Lyle, please remain.” When Ditzy and Blade hesitated and Ryan made an aborted movement of protest, Lester smiled again, an amused, but slightly twisted one this time. “Don’t worry, Ryan. You don’t need to return his favour. I’m not going to fire him for telling me the truth, no matter how awkward and embarrassing it might have been. Out.”

Stepping outside, Ryan turned to his men. "Guys, I'd like to chew you out for risking yourselves like that, but if I did I'd be a fucking hypocrite. Thanks. I needed the backup right then."

Blade shrugged with a slight grin. "No more dangerous than Afghanistan, boss." Flipping him a mocking salute, the knifeman sauntered back toward the records room.

Chuckling, Ryan gazed at Ditzy, who was smiling at him. 

"We're Stephen's best chance of survival, boss. If Lester kicked us out, I'd've found another way to stay in the search." Clapping Ryan on the shoulder, Ditzy headed back to his duty post in the security room. 

Ten minutes later in the security break room, almost buried amongst the piles of papers again, Ryan looked up from the report he was staring at to see a bemused Lyle hovering over him.

“You okay?” Ryan asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Lyle replied, his expression now unreadable.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Nah. Yeah. Shit.” Lyle sat down across from Ryan and laughed softly. “He thanked me again for shutting him down - and wasn’t that a fucking big surprise, boss? - and then he asked me out to dinner.”

That set Ryan back on his heels, and he felt his eyes go wide. “What did you say?”

Looking a bit shifty, Lyle hesitated, then blurted, “I said yes.” Then he dropped his face into his hands. “I can’t believe I said yes.”

Noticing from the corner of he eye an uncharacteristically tentative looking Lester lurking outside the door, Ryan shrugged. In for a penny . . . “Do you regret accepting?”

With a deep breath, Lyle looked at him again, a slightly lost expression on his face. “No. Not at all. I’m just fucking surprised.”

Ryan glanced at the door again, seeing a quick look of relief cross Lester’s face before the owner disappeared. “Good. He’s a good man, Jon. He’ll be a good friend.”

“Yeah,” Lyle agreed slowly. “Yeah, he will.” Grinning, he surged to his feet. “Back to the fray, boss. We're up to the ‘R’s on the clients. How far are you?”

Ryan suddenly felt helpless and hopeless. “Shit, Jon, I’ve barely made it through two month’s worth. These fucking reports before we put in the new system . . . “ He slapped his hand down on one of the piles. “They’re shit. Every day of them is taking over an hour to go through. It’s going to be another week before I’m done.” 

“Nah. Once you get to ours, it’ll speed up.”

Ryan sighed, eying the piles. “I hope to god you’re right. I have a nasty feeling we’re running out of time.”

xXx


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There might be hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for warnings.

Day Four: the A-R-C

Ryan squinted at the report in his hands. It looked as if it was a statement that someone had been hanging about, acting suspiciously, but he was buggered if he could make out the writing. He moved it closer, squinted sideways, and was able to be sure of at least the date: the second day after the yobs raided. So why bother with an irregularity report? That day was in the middle of the repairs, so of course there were strangers who weren’t clients hanging about. 

He almost dumped it, but there was just something about it that was raising red flags in his mind. He finally set it aside to check with - who the fuck was it anyway? Oh, Ainley. Jesus. The big man might be good backup in a fight, but he couldn’t write for shit. For a moment, Ryan actually considered signing his people up for remedial penmanship classes, then realised he might be getting just a little punchy.

A few hours later, a mug of soup was shoved under his nose, and his incipient complaint was short-circuited by the smell of vegetables and meat broth. He discovered just how hungry he was when his stomach started growling loudly. Leaning back in his chair, he practically inhaled the flavourful fluid, then dropped the empty mug onto the table.

“Thanks, Ditz,” he sighed.

“Any good?” the medic asked, nodding at the pile of reports.

“Not much,” Ryan admitted. “Only one suspicious one, and I’m waiting for Ainley to show up so I can ask him about it.”

“He just got in. Came in early. I’ll get him.” Ditzy grabbed the mug and headed out. “And I’ll bring another soup. You need the sustenance.”

Ryan closed his eyes as he waited, only opening them again when he heard a throat being tentatively cleared.

“Ah, Ainley.” Ryan sat up and pushed the report over to him. “Have a seat, and tell me about this.”

Ainley sat obediently and took the report to peruse. A flash of comprehension passed over his face, followed by incipient horror. “Oh, shit, boss.”

Ryan held up his hand. “We don’t know yet that it’s anything. So tell me about it.”

Ainley blew out a breath. “Okay. So there was a bunch of guys here, doing the remodel after those fucking yobs busted the place up.” He squinted, staring at the coffeepot as if it held the key to all knowledge. “Yeah. There were two teams, both of them in early, about 7am, I guess. I thought that was odd, but they had all the right paperwork, so I let them work.” Shrugging, he went on. “I reckoned that Sir James had pulled some strings to get things done outside normal business hours. This fellow,” he flipped a finger at the report, “he was a strange one. He kept wandering around. I chased him out of the whores’ corridors twice, and the canteen corridor once. I finally told him that if he couldn’t stay where he was supposed to be, I’d toss his arse out on the street and put in a complaint to his company.”

Ryan nodded. That made sense. “Sir James did contract for early hours for the repairs.“

Ainley blew out a breath, meeting Ryan’s gaze apologetically. “I guess this guy tagged on to the legit teams, yeah?”

“Looks like it.” Ryan grabbed his computer tablet. “Can you describe him?”

Ainley looked shifty, then slightly contrite. “Um, I think I can do better, boss. I know I wasn’t supposed to, we shouldn’t have cameras, but I took a photo of him.” Pulling out his mobile, Ainley forwarded a slightly blurry photograph to Ryan’s tablet.

“Remind me to yell at you later,” Ryan remarked mildly. “Right now, I want to hug you instead. Well done, Ainley.”

The big man sighed. “Thanks, boss. I’ve been feeling shitty about that for a long time. Glad I did it, now.” He grinned shamefacedly. “You have no idea how many times I almost deleted the fucking thing.”

“I’m bloody glad you didn’t,” Ryan said, surprised at the sudden cold feeling in his chest. “You might have just saved Stephen’s life.”

He printed out the photo and with another nod of appreciation to Ainley, headed for Lester’s office. When he entered, he was slightly surprised but very pleased to see DCI Hemingway sitting there with a cheerless expression on his face that turned slightly feral when his eyes met Ryan’s.

“You have news,” Hemingway stated flatly.

“Yes. Ainley saw someone hanging about and getting into places he shouldn’t be while the early morning repairs were going on. This is what he looked like.”

Lester gasped, and Hemingway closed his eyes for a second. “Glossing over exactly how this ‘description’ was obtained,” Hemingway said dryly, “I’ll call it in.” He pulled a mobile from his pocket and thumbed it on, then grunted in irritation when its screen remained stubbornly blank. “James, may I use your phone? My battery seems to be flat.”

Lester waved him out. “The lounge has a private line, Charles, be my guest. Ryan, please sit down before you fall down.”

Ryan obediently dropped into one of the chairs in front of Lester’s desk. “It’s a break, sir,” he said quietly. “Now all we have to do is hope the police can find him.”

xXx

Day Four: Night-time, the Mines

This time, Stephen fought back. He was too sore for it to happen again so soon, the delicate membranes of his arsehole were too painfully dry and rough. He was too afraid, sure that this time he would tear, that he would bleed and no one would be able to help. So he fought. 

It did no good. Every blow he landed with his fists and elbows, every kick that found its target in a stomach, a rib and once, if he interpreted the yelp correctly, a groin, only seemed to make his attackers more volatile, more determined, more aroused.

Even the eventual protests of Mitch and Tony didn’t make a butterfly’s fart worth of difference. The two finally even tried to physically pull the other three off of Stephen, but by the time the guards ran in at the commotion and broke it up, Stephen was only half conscious and completely helpless. The guards pulled him to his feet, and when he was able to stand unassisted even though his balance was wobbly, they simply warned the attackers to ‘knock it the fuck off’ and walked out.

He lay back down, and didn’t bother to fight this time when he was covered. The painful entry, pulling on delicate tissues, made no impression on him. The slight wetness of bleeding he felt, sticky but slick around the hard shaft, didn’t matter. He no longer had a reason to care, to hope, even to survive. 

A week’s worth of painful whippings had left bruises but no open wounds. Five minutes of beating had left him with a split lip, a bleeding gash on his cheek, and a long scrape along his collarbone. Even if Ryan was willing to have him back, even if Lester managed to free him, he was now blemished. No longer would he command top prices, no longer would he be the most valuable, the most desired whore. Thirty-one years of constant vigilance, constant care of skin and muscle, had at the end been in vain. It was over; done. Even a single scar was enough to ruin a whore’s value. Now Stephen would have three. 

Only once in his life had he fought back. And it had destroyed him.

xXx

Day Five: National Mining Association Offices

Matt Winters, Deputy Director for the National Mining Association, sighed as he was handed the latest report from the new automated tracking system. For once, he hoped, it was not going to raise more questions than it answered. Every week for the last three weeks, he’d had to send to all of the local mine offices for additional information, clarifications, and outright corrections to the data. As far as he was concerned, the idiots who designed and implemented this bloody horrendous travesty that was masquerading as a computer program ought to be in the mines themselves. That would teach them to install something so ridiculously . . .

Damn it. There it was again. Another blank entry. No, wait, not blank. He looked more closely and his eyes widened. A man had been assigned to the mines, but there was no reason noted. A photograph of a handsome, dark-haired young man with the most amazing cobalt eyes, an age, 31, but no name and no reason for his incarceration. That wasn’t right. And the face in the photo was awfully familiar. Where had he seen this man before?

xXx


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The taken is finally found.

Day Five: the A-R-C

“They found our lurker.” Lester marched into the security break-room where Ryan was continuing to check reports on the off chance that their current suspect didn’t pan out. “Hemingway’s about to question him.”

“Can we be there?” Ryan stood up, dropping the report he was currently reading back onto its pile without a thought.

Lester nodded. “I’m heading over now. You can ride with me.”

Wincing internally, Ryan agreed. One thing he’d learned in his time at the A-R-C: Sir James Lester considered speed limits and traffic laws as merely suggestions, to be effortlessly ignored whenever inconvenient. Taking a deep breath and bracing himself, he followed his boss out to the car, a sympathetic ‘thumbs-up’ from Lyle not making him feel any better.

xXx

Day Five: Metropolitan Police Station 

“Have a seat, sir,” the detective constable suggested. “You can watch from out here, but you can’t interfere.”

Lester raised an eyebrow, and the detective constable flushed but held his ground. Ryan suppressed a grin. It wasn’t often that anyone stood up to Sir James, especially someone who looked barely old enough to be attending the police academy, let alone to be in plain clothes already. 

“Very well.” Lester sighed the sigh of the mightily put-upon, and the man winced. Ryan reckoned he was wondering whether he would end up being assigned to the arsehole of nowhere first thing in the morning.

Ryan winked at him and the young man made his escape, murmuring, “I’ll get you gentlemen some tea, shall I?”

Chuckling, Lester took a seat at the window. “I do enjoy keeping people on their toes,” he remarked blandly. “It isn’t good for them to get too cocky.”

“Sir,” Ryan contented himself with replying, most of his attention on the two men on the other side of the one-way glass. Finding the speaker switch, he pressed it on.

“. . . and so, you do understand that any assistance you might give us will help your case immensely.” Hemingway’s voice came tinnily through the speaker, and Lester winced slightly at the metallic overtone. 

“Sorry, mister, not happening,” the craggy-faced man said, not sounding particularly contrite.

“We know you set the devices in the A-R-C, Danvers,” Hemingway stated, shuffling through papers to find one particular report, which he made quite a show of reading over.

Ryan grinned as he watched Danvers start to shift uncomfortably, craning his neck in an attempt to unobtrusively see what Hemingway was perusing.

“So what?” Danvers asked. “It’s just a whorehouse.”

Lester winced and Ryan’s grin widened. “A bit clueless about Houses, isn’t he?” he asked cheerfully and Lester chuckled, relaxing.

Hemingway continued to ignore Danvers, reading the paper and making notes. After a few minutes, the suspect sighed.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I reckon I’m stuffed, anyway.”

Hemingway, with a bland smile, placed the papers to the side and turned to speak clearly into the microphone of the official recording machine. “Begin. DCI Charles Hemingway, interrogation of William Danvers regarding sabotage at the A-R-C. State your name for the record, please.”

“William Francis Danvers,” the man muttered sullenly. “And I’m giving this statement of my own free will.”

Hemingway stilled for a fraction of a second, but recovered again so quickly that Ryan thought he might have been the only one to catch the hesitation.

“It sounds as if you’ve done this before, Mr Danvers,” Hemingway said mildly.

“Yeah, it ain’t healthy to care about Whores’ Rights,” Danvers growled.

“Ah, you mean the right to be injured, crippled and/or actually killed by the people who supposedly care so much about them?” 

Danvers glared. “We don’t do shite like that. We set the gas just to show that tosser Lester that we could take him down any time we want. It was a warning, see?”

Hemingway snorted. “It’s only a warning if it’s obviously a warning. There was no claiming of ‘credit’, no crowing in the press, no nothing. You want to explain that?”

“No idea. I was just told to set the stuff, not what was going to happen after.”

“Who told you to set it?”

Ryan tensed. Now they were getting somewhere.

“No idea,” Danvers repeated. “The offer came in over the phone, see, and we picked up the gas canisters and the down payment for the work at the Old Street bus station lockers. Then afterwards, we picked up the final payment at the same place. Different locker,” he added, anticipating Hemingway’s next question.

“Telephone number?”

“Burner phone,” Danvers said, “but for what it’s worth, here’s the number.” He wrote a string of digits on Hemingway’s note pad.

“Fuck,” Ryan growled, barely restraining himself from throwing the nearest chair through the window and following right behind it to strangle the arsehole. “Dead fucking end.”

xXx

Day Five: National Mining Association Offices 

Deputy Director Winters very seldom cursed, at least out loud. This time he was willing to make an exception. After wracking his brain for an hour over the photograph of the anonymous Mine inmate, a dark border popped into his mind, a border around the image of that face. A dark green border . . . Oh, shit. A priority missing person notification border. He spun around and opened his internet browser, tapping his fingers on the table as he waited for the official notifications site to load.

“Shit, shit, shit. Come on, damn it, come on.” 

The page finally loaded, and he tapped for the latest priority missing persons list. There he was: Stephen Hart, 31, kidnapped from the A-R-C, Indentured. Indentured? Since when were Indentured put onto the priority notifications page? Owner: Sir James Lester. Oh. Bugger. That’s why Hart was priority. They were fucked. The report had been filed four days ago. They were more than fucked. They were going to be lucky to avoid ending up in the mines themselves. 

After printing out the page, he grabbed it and the weekly report, and headed out. He had to get the local mine manager moving on this right now. He could alert his superiors on the way.

xXx

Day Five: the Mines - Management Offices 

“Where did you get this information?” The mine manager’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

“The fucking useless weekly report,” Winters replied succinctly. “Correlated with the official government priority missing persons site.”

Bates stared at him, mouth agape. “Priority?” he whispered weakly. “But he’s a whore! An Indentured whore!”

“Owned by Sir James Lester, and if you don’t want to find out what it’s like to be a miner yourself, you’ll -“

Holding up a hand, Bates interrupted. “Never mind. You’ve made your point. No one fucks with Lester.” He slapped his intercom. “Angelica, I need two things. Number one: get someone down below right away. Find and pull out the prisoner Stephen Hart. This is top priority.”

“One moment, sir,” the businesslike voice gave way to silence for less than ten seconds. “Done. Number two?”

“Find out how he ended up here in the first place. Who delivered him, who accepted him.”

“On it, sir.” The line went dead again, and the mine manager stared at Winters, looking stricken.

“We’re in a load of trouble, aren’t we?” he asked plaintively.

Winters nodded. The question might have been rhetorical, but it deserved an answer, anyway.

xXx

Day Five: the Mines - lower level 

The lash hit his back for the tenth time in an hour, burning, stinging. Stephen couldn’t bring himself to care. Nothing mattered but the pain from his cheek and lip, and the wetness between his arse cheeks: last night’s come or leaking blood, he didn’t know. He dropped to his knees and let his head hang.

“You tosser! On your feet, damn you!” Amador’s tone was almost triumphant, and Stephen heard the whip smack against the wall behind the guard as he prepared to strike again.

“Leave it, Amador.” Hughes, in spite of his lack of seniority, was giving an order. “He’s had enough.”

Amador started cursing the other guard, but then his voice cut off as if his throat had been cut. Stephen glanced up disinterestedly, only to have his attention caught by the three men in suits standing at the entrance. They were looking around, searching for something. Someone. Sudden hope flared in his heart, and when they stared at him, nodded, and started across the cavern toward him, he almost sobbed in relief. 

“Stephen Hart?” 

He nodded, speechless.

“Come with us.”

The world started spinning and he heard them shout in surprise, and then strong hands caught him as everything went black.

xXx


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pain isn't over yet.

Day Five: the Mines - Infirmary

Stephen woke slowly. Pulling himself up from the darkness was like climbing out of a well; he kept wanting to slip back. He was lying in a bed with an IV needle in the back of his hand, and a head that felt like a balloon stuffed with cotton wool. He remembered the last whipping, he remembered the silence and the men saying his name, and he remembered . . . 

Tears running down his face, he remembered the beating. The cuts on his face. The defects. It didn’t matter that he’d been found. It was too late. 

The door opened, and he turned his face to the wall, ashamed.

“Stephen?” the voice was soft. A woman’s voice. “I’m Doctor Moore. I checked you over. You’re dehydrated, you need a few good meals, but you should bounce back quickly.” He heard the hesitation before she continued. “I know you were raped repeatedly. There’s some pretty severe abrasion, and a couple of minor tears, but you’re going to be fine in time. Will you look at me?”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to see anyone. He felt her gentle touch on his shoulder and the rustle of cloth as she quietly left the room.

xXx

Day Five: the Mines - Management Offices 

“Do you want to try again to explain to me exactly how this happened?” 

Ryan held his breath, almost able to sympathise with the two men in the mine office who were staring at Sir James Lester like birds at a cobra, paralyzed with fear. They should have been in the position of power, but James Lester was definitely in a take-no-prisoners mood. Not a particularly tall man, he still managed to give the impression of looming over the mining executives, both of whom looked as if they would do just about anything in order to be anywhere but here. 

On the other hand, Ryan wasn’t sure they were worthy of sympathy. If they hadn’t botched the intake paperwork for Stephen’s incarceration he would have been found days ago. And that Ryan found very hard to forgive. They’d had his lover for five days and hadn’t even checked his file.

“Sir James, we’re extremely sorry.” The younger of the men finally spoke, eyes wavering between Lester and the desktop. “We’ve been beta testing new corporate software, and there are a few glitches.”

“A - few - glitches.” Lester’s glacial tone made a slight shiver run down Ryan’s spine. “You call what happened to Stephen Hart a ‘glitch’.”

The mining men traded glances, and the younger one sighed. “Yes, sir. A very nasty glitch.” He rubbed his face. “I can assure you, sir, that the moment I recognised him, we had him pulled out. He’s in the infirmary right now, being treated.”

“The . . . infirmary . . . being . . . treated.” If anything, Lester’s voice went even colder. In Ryan’s opinion, the vacuum of outer space would have lost out in a contest to see which was the proud possessor of a lower temperature. “So tell me, what, exactly, is wrong with him?”

“We don’t have the medical report yet, sir,” the older man said quietly. “If you’d like, we can take you there and find out right now.”

“That would be an excellent idea.” 

Lester stood back, and Ryan waited for them to gather enough courage to move. He wasn’t surprised when it took a few seconds. He thought he'd seen Lester in a bad mood a couple of days ago, but obviously even he hadn’t seen anything near what the man was capable of when truly angered. He made a mental note that Lester yelling was bad enough, but Lester when he went cold was to be avoided like an Australian Tiger Snake.

xXx

Day Five: the Mines - Infirmary 

Stephen lay on the bed staring at the ceiling and trying to decide whether to remain there or pull out the IV and try to run. With his injuries, once Lester got a good look at him he was bound to end up right back in the mines anyway, and he couldn’t cope with that. Running would only get him shot, but at least it would be quick.

The sound of the door opening made him slam his eyes shut, pretending to be still unconscious. 

“That won’t work, Stephen,” a familiar voice said, with totally unfamiliar gentleness. “I know you’re awake. Look at me.”

Thirteen years of obedience to that voice made Stephen open his eyes, though he couldn’t really see much through the tears filling them.

“We’re taking you home. It’s over.”

Frantically shaking his head, only managing to make himself dizzy, Stephen scrunched down in the bed and turned his face away. He went still when cool fingers gripped his chin and turned him back, but he kept his eyes closed this time. 

Lester’s tone remained soft, though Stephen could hear the steel underneath. “It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’m calling your physician the moment we get home.”

“I’m scarred,” Stephen whispered. “I’m no good to you any more.”

The chuckle from his owner was unexpected, and extremely unwelcome. Lester found his pain amusing? Stephen opened his eyes wide in shock, then had to fight to keep them open as Lester examined his face, moving it around in the light to check all angles. Once he was done he frowned, and Stephen wanted to die, immediately. Then an eyebrow was raised at him, and Lester shook his head.

“I don’t believe that any of those cuts are deep enough to scar,” Lester stated firmly. 

Hope growing from a tiny ember to a small fire in his chest, Stephen took a deep breath and for the first time actually met Lester’s eyes. “Really?” he asked, still feeling like a leaf in a gale. “Please, Master, don’t lie to me.”

Lester’s second eyebrow rose as high as the first. “Lie? Why would I bother to lie?”

Perversely, that bald statement of Lester’s power as his owner was reassuring to him. And then he almost went into shock at the next words he heard.

“Besides, any scarring this minor can be easily corrected with cosmetic surgery.”

“But no one bothers with scar eradication on whores!” Stephen whispered, wondering if Lester was playing some sort of vengeful game.

“Only because most aren’t worth it,” Lester said firmly, staring Stephen straight in the eyes. “You are. And if I truly need to prove my sincerity to you, here is that proof.” He stepped back and gestured, and Tom Ryan walked through the door, eyes fixed on Stephen, taking in the bruises, cuts, and scrapes without a flinch.

“R-Ryan?” Stephen breathed, only now starting to believe.

Ryan sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to give him a gentle kiss on his sore mouth, then pulled back only enough to press his forehead to Stephen’s. “I love you, blue-eyes,” he said softly. “Come home with me.”

Stephen nodded, eyes filling again. “Yes, please.” After another feather-light kiss, he looked around. Lester was gone.

xXx

Day Five: the Mines - Management Offices 

“So, my most expensive, most profitable whore is now terrorised and damaged, possibly beyond repair.” Lester placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned over to stare the mine manager straight in the eyes. “What, exactly, do you intend to do about that?”

The Deputy Director sighed, and Lester allowed his attention to switch to the younger man. “Sir, we’re instituting a program change right now that will flag anyone outside of normal parameters. Those flags will not wait for the usual weekly report, they will send notifications to both Manager Bates and myself immediately. This will not happen again.”

“It had bloody well better not!” Lester stated flatly, narrowing his eyes a fraction and raising one eyebrow in what he privately called his don’t you dare fuck with me look. “But you do know that’s not what I was actually interested in hearing, don’t you?”

Lester was rather gratified to see Winters swallow hard.

“Yes, sir, I know. What would you have us do?” Winters asked simply.

Lester smirked. “Have you heard of the Longevity Prize?”

Both Winters and Bates turned white. 

“Yes, I see you have. How improper. That's supposed to be an industry secret. And are you somehow aware of the amount of that prize, as well?”

Winters cursed under his breath, whilst Bates looked as if he was staring into a bottomless pit, an abyss of despair. Perhaps he was. Any mine manager who had to pay out a five million pound penalty was going to be looking for another job within a day, if he was even lucky enough to stay out of the mines himself. 

“Sir James -“ Winters started, then trailed to a stop, eying the mine manager thoughtfully.

Lester took a slight amount of pity on them and straightened up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes, well, perhaps we can compromise on you paying for all medical treatment that will be required to bring Stephen back to full health.”

Winters glanced at Bates, who nodded, having regained a little colour in his face. “I think that’s fair, Sir James. From the report the doctor gave me whilst you were visiting him, all injuries he received will heal without intervention, or are repairable with no difficulty.”

“All physical injuries,” Lester replied implacably. “And even that is open to interpretation. ‘Healing’ and ‘healing without leaving a mark behind’ are two entirely separate results. I will accept nothing short of the latter outcome. Stephen will be restored to full health, completely unscarred. You will also pay for any emotional counselling that will be required to get him past the trauma of what happened here.”

“Agreed,” Bates said heavily. “We’ll do our best to get him back to you, Sir James. We really do regret this.”

“As do I,” Lester said. “And when you find out who brought him here, you will let me know.” He wasn’t even aware of how dark and dangerous his tone had become.

Bates shivered. “Yes, sir, we will,” he agreed, overriding Winters’s aborted movement of protest.

“Good.” Lester stepped away. “We’re taking my property home now, gentlemen. I suggest you complete your investigation quickly.”

He walked out of the room, nodding to a startled Charles Hemingway in the hallway, the DCI having obviously just arrived in a concurrence of timing that was almost frighteningly perfect. Lester had wanted a few minutes alone with the executives, so he had deliberately waited until he arrived at the mines to inform the police that Stephen had been found. He hoped, without however caring too much about it, that there wouldn’t be any troubling fallout regarding the delay.

xXx


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is hope again.

Day Five: the A-R-C

Lester waited impatiently in the infirmary for the cosmetic surgeon to finish her examination. He knew that he was doing his hard-line reputation no good by hovering, but damn it all, there was a crapload of money on the line here. At least that was what he kept telling himself, profanity included. Unfortunately, even he didn’t seem to be able to believe himself. There was more than money involved. This was Stephen, after all. 

“Sir?” Ryan’s tone was surprisingly tentative, and Lester realised that he’d been frowning so hard and for so long that his cheek muscles were actually aching. 

Wiping all expression from his face, Lester gestured for Ryan to take a seat. “They’re still consulting,” he said quietly. “Leila Barclay is the best cosmetic surgeon to be found, and I say that not just because she’s a friend, nor because she also happens to be married to my own physician.”

“Yes, sir.” Ryan sat obediently, but Lester could see his hands wanting to fidget, the tiny, constantly aborted movements more obvious than the man probably knew.

“I mean that, Ryan. Jeff and Leila are the premier medical team in the country. And the most discreet.” He leaned back and rested his head against the high back of the chair. “Jeff has been the A-R-C’s on-call physician for fifteen years and both of them have been my friends for even longer.” For some reason, the pattern embedded in the ceiling tiles was suddenly quite hypnotically fascinating.

“Sir James.” Ryan’s voice was sharper than normal, and Lester become conscious of the fact that he’d essentially crawled back inside his own mind and taken refuge there. Based on his tone, Ryan must have been trying to get his attention for a few minutes.

Leaning forward again, he sighed and rubbed tired, gritty eyes. “Sorry. But there’s more at stake here than you know, Ryan.”

“Can you tell me?”

Dropping his hands, Lester examined the man sitting across from him. In spite of Lester’s own sometimes bad handling of the ex-soldier, Ryan still managed to project a willingness to support, a stability that made him worthy of a higher level of trust than Lester had shown him so far.

“Yes. I believe I can. You’ve earned it, I think. But this goes no farther. Not even to Jon.” Lester winced internally. Damn. That was a dead giveaway. But Ryan, bless him, took Lester’s use of Lyle’s first name with only the slightest of blinks. 

“Sir.”

“There is an annual award from the ARI known as the Longevity Prize. It was created fifty years ago by the Agency to try to make life a little easier for Indentured whores.”

Ryan nodded. “I remember you making a passing reference to it once.”

Lester dredged up a rueful grin. “Yes, a bit indiscreet of me. It is to be hoped that Stephen wasn’t within earshot, as the Prize is supposed to be entirely hush-hush.” At Ryan’s querying look, Lester grimaced. “In the first year, an eligible whore was permanently scarred in a deliberate attack by another, who, in case you’re wondering, was sent straight to the mines for the infraction. After that, they ‘officially’ cancelled the contest.” With a cockeyed look at Ryan’s now smirking face, he continued. “In any case, the Longevity Prize is very quietly awarded to the owner or manager of the most profitable whore, Indentured or Free, who is still actively practising at the calendar end of his or her 33rd birthday year.”

Ryan’s eyes widened and he swore softly. “And Stephen was - is - in line for the Prize.” It wasn’t a question.

“More than in line, Ryan. Until five days ago, it was pretty much a given that he would win. At almost 32, he’s still bringing in more profit than most near-retirement 25-year-olds.” Lester hesitated. Oh, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “The prize is five million pounds.”

“Fucking hell,” Ryan whispered. “Sir James, do you think that was the reason he was taken?”

“I’m very much afraid it was,” Lester replied, knowing he sounded a trifle hopeless. If Stephen had been stolen away to destroy his shot at the Prize, then the chance of bringing the kidnapping home to the person actually responsible would be miniscule.

“So, it’s privately awarded, with no publicity,” Ryan said in a musing tone. “Who knows who’s in line for it?”

“We all keep track of those things.” Lester was tired enough to allow his surprise to show in his voice. “Considering how much money is at stake, we’d be fools not to.”

“I get that,” Ryan’s lips were pursed. “I’m just not quite sure - if it’s so private, how can you be sure it’s even being awarded?”

Lester blinked. “Ah. I see what you mean. There’s a meeting at the end of the year of those who own or manage whores in contention. It’s by invitation only. We all have our moles, as it were, in each others’ Houses, and knowing who has purchased or hired which whore and how well they’re doing is just part of the rivalry.”

Ryan was staring at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “Seriously? I understand it’s a lot of money, but that does seem to border on obsession.”

“Nothing is too excessive when the goal is to win five million pounds,” Lester said aridly, and had to hold back a grin when Ryan’s eyes widened. It was definitely a good idea to keep even his Head of Security slightly wary of him. “However, you must also know that it is extremely rare for the Prize to be awarded. It’s been won only three times in the entire fifty years it has existed. All three times were by Free females.” At Ryan’s whistle, Lester nodded agreement. “Indeed. I’m sure you can imagine the major kudos I would receive from my peers if an Indentured male under my ownership were to prevail.”

“You sure as hell would! Wait, Free whores are eligible? Didn’t you say it was set up by the ARI - doesn’t that stand for Agency for the Regulation of the Indentured?”

Lester chuckled. “Yes, and for the first five years the Prize was only for Indentured. But the owners of mixed Houses protested, and after much debate the rules were amended to allow Free to participate. It hasn’t helped much. Three in fifty years is still a rather pathetic showing.”

Ryan had opened his mouth to reply when the sound of a door opening drew Lester’s attention. The doctors were finished.

Lester stood as they entered. They were an odd pairing, with Jeff Barclay a lanky ginger-haired six footer and his wife Leila a diminutive brunette, but they still managed to project a united front to all and sundry.

“James.” They both shook his hand, and Lester in turn introduced Ryan. 

Once the amenities had been observed, Lester suggested they adjourn to his lounge for a conference. The physicians agreed, and without speaking the four made their way down the corridor, through the public area and into Lester’s private rooms.

Seated on the sofas in Lester’s lounge, they waited for Abby to set out the tea service. When she exited and softly closed the door, Lester turned to his friends.

“Leila?” Knowing that his voice had an undertone of pleading, but not really giving a damn, Lester made it known without words that Ryan’s presence was nothing to worry about.

The surgeon’s round face crinkled into the same delightful smile that had captivated the newly-knighted Sir James Lester sixteen years ago. “Good news I can assure you. Both of you.” Her analytical gaze took in Ryan’s tension and extrapolated his involvement rather accurately from that. “The tracking chips have been rebooted without any complications, and after examining Stephen physically, I’m of the firm belief that he’s going to be completely fine. The scrape over his clavicle will be healed in a week with no after-effects. I’ve treated the split lip and it should be unnoticeable within two weeks. The only thing that concerns me in the slightest, and believe me, that’s a very slight amount, is the wound on his cheekbone. I’d like to see him in my office tomorrow if the swelling has reduced enough by then, James. I would prefer to seal that injury surgically.”

Lester took a deep breath. The news, though not as positive as she obviously thought it was, was actually not as negative as he’d feared. He’d been sure that the lip would need more than on-the-spot treatment, and he hadn’t been sure the cheek was repairable at all.

“What about his back?” Ryan’s voice was distant and almost clinical, clearly under the hardest of control.

“No worries on that at all,” she replied openly with a shake of her head. “There is some rather bad bruising and a few welts, but all should be healed within ten days. Again, with no lasting marks.” 

At Ryan’s slightly disbelieving look, and muttered, “Seriously?” she added without visible offense, “If prisoners are severely damaged, they cannot work. They want the prisoners to be able to work, so they use a material for the lash that causes pain but very seldom any real injury.”

“Thank you.” Ryan sat back, once more fading into the background as much as an ex-Special Forces soldier could.

“Yes, thank you,” Lester echoed, then noticed Jeff’s stillness, which for him was sending a signal as obvious as an out of tune cello in a string quartet. There was something Leila wasn’t telling them. 

“Jeff, I believe you have something to add?”

The physician sighed, taking his wife’s hand and stroking it. “As always, James, you’re ahead of me. Yes, he will heal, and I agree with Leila that physically he will heal completely, so no worry about that.”

“So, you’re worried about his emotional recovery?” Lester asked, his own voice deliberately impassive.

The two doctors looked at each other, and at Leila’s encouraging nod, Jeff elaborated. 

“That’s where I’m a little concerned, yes. You know Stephen, he’s always been very open, very trusting. I honestly rather dread to think what would have happened to him if anyone else had purchased him all those years ago.”

Lester tried thinking about ice cubes, snowstorms, cold underground caves, anything that might cool the blush he could feel trying to rise. “Do go on,” he managed in a rather strangled tone, doing his best to avoid noticing Ryan’s slight grin at his embarrassment. Sir James Lester did not do open sentiment.

“You’ve already worked it out, James. You’ve seen him. He’s always believed that all he has to do is be his best and everything will work out, that he’ll be safe and cared for. That belief has just taken a very long walk off a very short pier and landed in some horribly freezing water. It’s going to take time for him to trust again.” The physician sighed. “You might have to accept the slight chance that he will be unable to return to that same level of openness.”

“That is not going to happen.” Lester stared stonily at him. “It doesn’t matter what it takes, we will bring him back. He means too much to us.”

Jeff nodded and smiled. “I’d hoped you were going to say that, James. You must have patience, though.”

Lester stood. “I will.” He gestured at Ryan. “We will.”

The Barclays both smiled that time.

xXx


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The healing begins

Day Six: the Barclay Clinic

Stephen woke suddenly, feeling groggy. 

He stared around blearily. Where was he? This wasn't his room at the A-R-C. Oh, wait. He’d just had surgery. He blinked a few times, trying to make his eyes feel a little less gritty and a little more focussed. It didn’t work particularly well, but he still managed to notice the man sitting beside his bed.

“Ryan?” he whispered.

Ryan’s hand closed over his, and Ryan’s lips brushed his so very gently. “The surgeries went great, Stephen,” he said softly. “They laser-sealed the cut on your face, and Doctor Barclay says it will heal without a scar in about six weeks. They also checked your arse while they had you under, and went ahead and sealed those tears, too. You’ll be sore for about a week from that, but then you’ll be completely fine.”

Stephen felt his eyes tear up, which actually ended up making them feel much better. The rest of him didn’t, though, and he couldn’t stop himself from clutching Ryan’s fingers as if they were a lifeline. Maybe they were. It didn’t matter. 

“You’re here!” Embarrassed by his silly outburst, Stephen blushed.

To his surprise, Ryan accepted the ridiculous words without a blink. “Always,” he said simply. “Get some rest, I won’t leave.”

Stephen let his eyelids fall as he drifted off again.

xXx

Day Six: the A-R-C 

“Stephen’s back in his room.” 

Owen’s businesslike tone didn’t help; Lester still jumped and dropped his stylus.

“Sorry, Sir James,” the medic said apologetically, but Lester waved it away.

“Not to worry, my dear fellow,” he made himself reply. “I needed a little extra adrenalin circulating through my system this afternoon.”

Ditzy grinned, ignoring the snark. “We reckoned that was better than the bed in the Infirmary. The sooner he’s back in familiar surroundings, the quicker he’ll recover.”

Lester leaned back in his chair and examined his day shift supervisor closely. He’d had much more contact with Ryan and Lyle than he had with Blade and this calm, collected man who was called ‘Ditzy’ for some odd and unaccountable reason. 

Owen stood still under the scrutiny, the only concession he made being to close the door. After allowing Lester to look his fill, he smiled. “Sir?”

Lester sighed. Most of the time he appreciated the perspicacity of the men Ryan had brought on board, but on occasion it was most inconvenient. “Thank you, Owen. Please, sit for a moment.”

Owen obeyed quickly but not subserviently. Lester was liking him more and more.

“I understand that you were a Special Forces medic,” Lester began.

“Yes, sir.” The answer he received was short and to the point.

“I would appreciate it if you would be our liaison to the Doctors Barclay on Stephen’s treatment.” That had the effect of making Owen blink, just slightly.

“I'm not a licensed physician,” Owen pointed out, validly.

“No need for that,” Lester replied. “This is unofficial.” Then a random thought took root, and he rather liked the idea that flowered from it. “However, if you would agree to it, I will send you through civilian EMT training, expensed to the A-R-C. You should breeze through the course, and you will then have a civilian license to go along with your military certification.”

Owen’s eyes lit up, but then the light faded. “And how does Doctor Barclay feel about this? I don’t want to step on his toes. It wouldn’t be healthy.”

Lester allowed a small smile to peek out. “Doctor Barclay is all for it. If I have someone on staff who can take care of minor incidents, I won’t have to call him out at awkward moments. He does have many private patients, and sometimes the rescheduling causes him a rather high level of annoyance.” 

“I’d like that, Sir James,” Owen said sincerely. “Even though my military certification wasn't transferrable to a civilian license, it’s been hard sometimes to stand back when I knew I could help.” He shook his head. “It’s so bloody stupid. Training is training. Bloody political infighting at its worst.”

“Agreed. However, I am rather surprised you haven’t jumped in on, let me think, I do believe it was three separate occasions.”

Owen frowned. “None of them were even remotely classifiable as ‘emergency’, so I couldn’t get away with it. Both you and I would have been in a load of shit if I’d stepped in without being licensed.” He added grudgingly, “The one time that it was an emergency - last week’s attack - they had enough people and didn’t need me.”

“Well, that’s about to change,” Lester stated firmly. “I’ll get with Ryan about scheduling the training.” He gave a significant glance at the door. “Now, I believe you have an A-R-C to supervise.”

Ditzy grinned and sauntered out. Lester wondered momentarily if he’d created a monster, then sighed as the door opened again immediately to allow entry of DCI Hemingway, who was currently looking like the bastard son of a thunderstorm cloud and a Nile crocodile.

“James,” Hemingway said ominously.

“Charles.” Lester kept his voice mild. He knew he’d crossed a line with his behaviour yesterday. Thinking back on it, waiting to notify Hemingway that Stephen had been found truly hadn’t been one of his better ideas, and he was about to reap what he’d sown. He was preparing to invite Hemingway to sit when the inspector strode across the room and flopped into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Bloody hell, James, what were you playing at?”

Sighing again, Lester rubbed his chin as he thought. “I wasn’t playing at all, Charles. I was more serious yesterday than I’ve been in years.”

“Stop the games!” Hemingway’s voice was as sharp as shards of broken china. “You deliberately met, alone, with men who are witnesses if not actual suspects in an ongoing criminal investigation. You had the victim of the crime removed from the location without permission, and you have ignored all official requests for interviews with him. Damn it, James, this is serious!”

Ah. This was going to be slightly heavier ground to get over than Lester had anticipated. Doing his old friend the courtesy of dropping his mask, he spoke clearly. “I know. I understand that what I did was not the safest of lines to take. But surely, those men who notified me that they’d found my property wouldn’t have been the same men who stole him. And only if they’d been the perpetrators would my meeting with them be in any way interfering.”

“Bullshit, James,” Hemingway sighed. “They were bloody terrified when I arrived.”

Lester chuckled. “They weren’t afraid of being accused of a crime,” he replied, pointing out what he knew was a perfect example of the ‘bleeding obvious’. “Simply of having to pay through the nose for the ineffectiveness of their tracking system.”

“Be that as it may, I had a terrible time getting any information out of them.”

“That was not my fault,” Lester pointed out indignantly. “They should have been even more cooperative after I spoke to them.”

Running his hands over his face, Hemingway backtracked. “You removed the evidence.”

“The ‘evidence’ was my property, who needed medical attention immediately.” Lester allowed a little steel into his tone.

Hemingway picked up on it with a raised eyebrow. “I see,” he said drily. “And your refusal to let us talk to him?”

“He was in no condition to be questioned, Charles, surely you can see that.”

“And now?” Hemingway asked mildly. “May I ‘question’ him now?”

Lester stared at him, thinking hard. If he allowed it, and Stephen had a relapse, he could lose a boatload of money. If he didn’t allow it, Hemingway could force Stephen down to the station as a material witness, and Lester would lose everything. Damn; he’d backed himself into a corner on this one. 

“Very well, first thing in the morning, but even then I must insist that both myself and Mr Ryan be present.”

That set Hemingway back on his heels. Both eyebrows made a break for his hairline, and his mouth dropped open for a second before slamming closed. “You’re serious?” 

“Completely,” Lester replied blandly. “Stephen is in precarious emotional condition. I will be there as his owner, and Ryan will be there as his anchor.”

“Anchor,” Hemingway muttered. “Is that what they’re calling it now?” 

Lester suppressed his smile. He knew he’d won.

xXx

Day Seven: the A-R-C 

Stephen sat on the sofa in his quarters, doing his best to still the tremors in his hands. Having had a bellyful of being a victim, he had taken shameless advantage of his owner’s pleasure at having him returned and had pleaded that he be allowed out of bed to meet with the inspector. He knew he was being slightly unreasonable about it, but as far as he was concerned if he was going to be unreasonable he might as well go all the way. 

Thus, here he was, ensconced on the sofa and hopefully looking more controlled than he felt. He’d made the concession of allowing one soft blanket to be draped across his shoulders and another tucked in around him, so at least there would be a place he could hide his trembling if it became too obvious.

Inspector Hemingway sat across from him with a sympathetic expression on his face, one that Stephen recognised to his surprise as completely sincere.

"Is it all right if I record this? It makes it easier on both of us if I don't have to break in constantly to take notes."

Stephen gave a quick glance at Lester, and upon receiving his nod, agreed.

"Thank you." Hemingway set a small box onto the coffee table, flipped it on, and gave the date and time and the current occupants of the room. "Okay, Stephen," he said quietly. "I need you to tell me everything that happened over the last six days. Don't try to censor yourself, don't worry about giving too many details or boring us. Every tiny fact has the potential to be relevant, okay? Start when you’re ready, and take your time."

After another quick glance at Lester, Stephen took a deep breath and closed his eyes, thinking it might be easier that way. He felt Ryan's warm arm settle around him, and leaned into the strong shoulder. 

In as steady a voice as he could manage, he told them about his experiences. Waking up, realising where he was, the day of packing and Mitch’s help, the rape, the day of drilling and Amador's viciousness, the second night of rape, the day of sorting and Summers’ punishments, the third night of rape, fighting back against the fourth rape with the help of Tony and Mitch and its eventual ineffectiveness, his hopelessness, Hughes trying to stop Amador’s cruelty on the fifth day, and finally, being freed.

A few times, Stephen heard stifled gasps and muttered imprecations from Lester's direction, but as it was clear that his owner was furious at the mine management, the miners, and even more at the guards and the other prisoners, not Stephen, it actually made him feel better instead of worse. By the end of the litany Ryan's arm was wrapped so tightly around him that it was almost painful, but Stephen didn't mind. It was comforting to be held so closely, but at the same time held in such a way that implied he wasn't a helpless child needing protection.

Sighing, Stephen opened his eyes and sat back up from where he had been tucked into Ryan's side. "I'm sorry that I can't be more help, Inspector."

Hemingway simply nodded and asked for a few clarifications, details that Stephen had glossed over a trifle. Obediently, Stephen complied, though those bits were the ones he really didn't like thinking about. Trust the perspicacious inspector to home in on those.

"That's enough, I think," Lester said, and Stephen felt the weight of his gaze. "You have everything he can give."

Holding his breath, Stephen waited, eying the inspector as calmly as possible. After a moment of close examination, Hemingway nodded, to Stephen's relief. “You really have no idea who took you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Not a clue,” Stephen said rather ruefully. “If I even had a guess, I’d tell you, believe me.” He stared Hemingway directly in the eyes, not knowing or caring that his face was showing a bleakness that sat ill on it. “I’d like whoever did that to me to end up in the same situation.”

“An eye for an eye?” Ryan asked, no emotion discernable in his voice.

Stephen looked over at him, not sure what to make of that. “Not really. More like ‘do unto others’, I think,” he said thoughtfully.

Ryan grinned, looking rather untamed. “I’d like to ‘do unto’ them, certainly. And they wouldn’t like it one bit.” 

Ryan’s words diffused the tension in the room, and Hemingway chuckled and leaned forward. “On that note, I think we’re done with the questions. End of interview.” With that, he punched the ‘off’ button, picked up the machine, and stood.

Lester stood also, and Stephen looked up to see his owner looking severe. “Stephen, rest. Ryan, you have today and tomorrow off from your regular duties. Your only task is to take care of Stephen.” 

Nodding, Ryan pulled Stephen close again, and the two of them watched Lester march out of the room with Hemingway trailing him like a puppy after its mother.

Stephen settled in with a happy sigh. They had two entire days to themselves. He couldn’t remember another time in his life when he’d had both free time and someone he cared about to share it with.

xXx


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lester makes plans, as does someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for warnings.

Day Seven: Lester’s lounge

“Charles, is there any chance that we can keep this entire debacle out of the press?” Lester waved his friend to a seat as he walked over to the bar and poured them both a generous portion of whisky. “Since there hasn’t been a decent dénouement, I’m afraid that journalists will be camped out in the lobby hoping for constant updates in a search that could have no end. It won’t do Stephen any good at all to be the centre of a perpetual media whirlwind.” 

Hemingway nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t see why not. Some people already know parts of the story, of course, but most of them aren’t media hounds. I’ll do my best.”

“I almost wish -” Lester sighed. “No, never mind. Not only would it have a deleterious effect on Stephen, but can you imagine the uproar if it were splashed in the news that someone innocent was sent to the mines and they didn’t even know about it for almost a week?” 

Shuddering, Hemingway reached for the glass Lester handed him. “That doesn’t bear thinking about, James. It would not only put Stephen through hell, but it would put the entire practise of Indenturedness back in the headlines. We’ve only just got the last flare-up of Indentured Rights watered down.” Taking a swallow, he added, “And not only that, but the bloody mine association is furious about the entire thing, and wants it swept under the rug.” He grinned. “They’re really not very happy with you, either, James.”

Lester snorted inelegantly. “I’m supposed to care? They took my property, my very expensive, very valuable property, and damaged him severely. They deserved a lot more than I gave them. Has there been any word on who processed him in?”

“No,” Hemingway replied, brown eyes twinkling. “And don’t think I don’t know you already know that.”

Lester allowed one eyebrow to rise to a height pre-calculated for maximum irritation in the observer. “Would you like to try that sentence again? I do believe it wasn’t quite convoluted enough.”

Smiling, Hemingway made a rude gesture. “I’m not really concerned about the mines, honestly. The National Mining Association tracking system is being sifted with a fine-tooth comb as we speak. With both the NMA council and the National Indentured Tracking Agency breathing down their necks, the programmers are putting in twenty-four hour days plugging the holes in their software that allowed someone to hack them and stuff in a record for Stephen. And with the laws against keeping CCTV records from civilian areas, it’s way too late to try to see who dumped him.” 

He stared mournfully at the bottom of his now empty glass, and Lester chuckled and retrieved the bottle, placing it on the table in front of his friend. Hemingway added a large tot and sipped. “The one I want to find is whoever it was who ordered the deactivation of the tracking chips.”

Lester nodded, swirling the amber liquid in his own glass. “Do you have any idea yet whether it was someone on the inside? Or was it an outside agent with a piece of rather frightening equipment?”

“The actual deactivation was performed by someone within the NITA,” Hemingway said quietly. “We already found him, and have questioned him. Unfortunately, we’re in the same boat with him as we were with the man who set the gas here. He received an anonymous call from a burner phone, and a cash down-payment was dropped off.” He set his now empty glass aside and added plaintively, “It surprises me how many people actually trust that an anonymous caller will pay them the full amount. This time, the perpetrator didn’t receive his second payment and he was rather peeved about it, so he opened up quite easily. In any case, he is now gracing the mines in Stephen’s place, and his eleven month old son is heading for the Indentured Training Centre in three weeks.”

Lester couldn’t resist the urge to allow his most annoying smile to appear. “I’m sure the mother of his child is extremely pleased with him.”

Hemingway stood and stretched. “Not particularly,” he replied sardonically. “She instituted divorce proceedings the moment he was arrested.”

A knock on the door heralded the entrance of Jeff Barclay, who wanted to go over Stephen’s treatment plan. Hemingway tactfully took his leave, and Lester sat down with the doctor.

“James, I think it would be a good idea for Mr Ryan to sit in on this. And perhaps Mr Owen as well, since he’ll be front line medic for the A-R-C from now on.” When Lester opened his mouth, Barclay held up a hand. “I’ve told you, I like the idea. I did some checking on him, and I found out that Owen’s superiors were rather unhappy that he followed Ryan out of active service. Indeed, they were actually fairly displeased about all of them leaving, including Ryan.”

“I see,” Lester replied, sending quick texts to Ryan and Ditzy. He gave his friend his best shark-grin. “It is nice to know that I managed to put one over on the brass.”

“It would actually have been me who did that.” Ryan’s voice from the doorway had laughter underpinning it, and Lester felt able to allow amusement to warm him for the first time in a week.

At Lester’s wave, the two men came into the room and sat.

“So, Doctor Barclay, elucidate.” Lester sat back and listened carefully as the doctor outlined a week by week treatment plan designed to return Stephen to his formerly insouciant self. A quick glance at a thoughtful but agreeable Ditzy had Lester nodding. “I think that should work.” He glanced at the calendar on the wall, counting dates, adding up income and calculating profit margins in his mind. “I do need him to be back to normal by August.”

“That should be possible,” Barclay said. “However, there is one minor sticking point that we’re going to have to work on. Stephen is going to need constant reassurance of his value for a while, especially until the bandages are removed and the healing is complete. He must be told daily that he is worthwhile.”

“That’s not going to be a problem,” Ryan stated, and Lester agreed.

“We can do that, Jeff.” Lester narrowed his eyes. “But I do believe there’s something else on your mind.”

“Yes. You need to set up some sort of extra security around him. With whoever took him managing to override the tracking chips in his Indentured tattoo, he’s still feeling extremely vulnerable even though they’ve been reactivated, and whenever that nervousness about his safety flares up, it’s causing psychological setbacks.”

Ryan and Ditzy traded glances, and when Ditzy nodded, Ryan turned to Lester. “Sir James, there might be an easy answer to that. Special Forces have a special high-powered tracker that we - they use when they want to make sure they don’t lose someone on a high-risk mission, and I think my old CO will liberate one for us.” He grinned. “He's one of Stephen’s biggest fans.”

Lester harrumphed at the bloody simplicity of the solution, then mentally berated himself. He was starting to sound like his father. Pulling out his mobile, he scanned through the contacts and dialled a number. Four minutes later, he had the Colonel’s assurance that a subcutaneous unit and its tracking device would be delivered by special courier in the morning, and all four men traded triumphant grins.

xXx

Day Seven: Stephen’s quarters 

“Hey, love.” 

Stephen woke slowly from his nap and stretched luxuriously, basking in the familiarity of his room. He opened his eyes and smiled into the storm-grey eyes that were only about six inches from his. “Hey, yourself,” he murmured, and received the reward of an extremely gentle but still toe-curling kiss.

“Mmmm, more, please.”

Ryan seemed to be quite happy to grant his request. Then the ex-soldier pulled back, and Stephen tensed.

“What is it?” he asked guardedly.

Grinning, Ryan pulled him close and whispered in his ear. “We’re going to put a military grade subcutaneous tracker in you. You’ll never be lost again.”

Stephen’s eyes filled with tears of relief and joy. 

xXx

Day Seven: Unknown Location 

“What do you mean, ‘they found him’? You assured me that he was lost for good. That there would be no loose ends.” The man sitting behind the desk speaking into a mobile phone was visibly holding onto his temper by the thinnest of threads as the woman sauntered into the room. 

“What do you want?” he demanded, finally noticing her standing in front of his desk listening to the tinny sounds of excuses emanating from the tiny speaker.

She smiled. “I think I can . . . assist . . . you with your little problem.”

“Mrs Lester, I have no problem.” He hung up quickly.

“Oh, you have a problem. A five million pound problem. Believe me, I know exactly what you’ve been up to. And exactly why it didn’t work.” She sat down without invitation and crossed her legs, letting her smile widen as his gaze settled on her artfully displayed cleavage. “I would be happy to take care of Stephen for you, for fifty percent of the Prize. And it’s ‘ex-Mrs Lester’. Our divorce was officially final as of last week,” Helen added aridly.


End file.
